


Leather Pants

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingon is thirsty as fuck, Groping, Kissing, M/M, Modern Era, Not a modern AU, Post-Canon, Sloppy Makeouts, just set in an Anglophonic country in the late 2010s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: In the 21st century, Findekáno is sent back to the eastern shores to look for his cousin Macalaurë. He finds someone else entirely, someone he thought he would never see again.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 78





	Leather Pants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Astaldont](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astaldont/gifts), [mallornblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallornblossom/gifts).



> This is a fragment I wrote while exhausted and sleep-deprived some months ago, posted here so it doesn’t get lost to Discord. The premise is “Fingon, Finrod, and Aredhel went back East from Valinor to find Maglor in the modern era, and unbeknownst to them, once they left, Maedhros was reembodied and followed them.” Mostly I wanted an excuse to write a Russingon fic that matched the aesthetic of Finger Eleven’s “Paralyzer”, which I think I accomplished.

There is a sudden change. He feels it in his pulse, his  _ fëa _ , his bones. A paradigm shift, a realignment of the whole of the universe onto an axis it forgot was missing. His heart thuds in his chest, almost snapping him back into sobriety. He groans and downs another shot of whatever is sitting in front of him. It burns on the way down, but not like  _ nenvalaina _ from home, and he barely tastes it. He is trapped on a pointless quest to find his cousin who does not want to be found, his wardrobe is a formless mass of drab cotton and ill-fitting denim, and he is surrounded by humans who barely remember who they once were, but on the upside, he is finally getting drunk.

It is dark in this  _ club _ (what a terrible word, what a terrible language, what a terrible civilization) but he is grateful for that, because when it is dark he has fewer half-conscious  _ fírimar _ throwing themselves at him. At first, it was charming that they were so taken with him - he is attractive, and he knows it, and perhaps the pale green stone he bears at his throat does not mean to them what it means to him - but an endless slew of men and women in various states of undress and desperation has quickly lost its novelty. He is grateful for the dim lights, the pounding music, the warehouse stretching out behind the bar where he sits. All of these mean he will almost certainly be left alone.

This place is called “The Handcuff”, which makes him laugh even when he is not chasing oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. It is, apparently, a relic - a holdover from something called “rave culture” and “the glory days of cybergoth” - but it is reliably open when he is bored, and it is one of the few places that he can go where no one will raise an eyebrow at his hair. Findaráto cut his, and Írissë as well; he stubbornly refused and is paying the price. But not here. He pours himself another shot, pointedly  _ not _ looking at the door and whatever it is that made all of creation angle itself in a new direction. It will be nothing. It is always nothing.

_ And if it is not? _

_ Oh, shut up _ , he answers, and downs the shot just as he has downed all the others.

_ Turn around. You don’t know what it will be. _

_ Fuck off. Oh, lovely - I sound like one of _ them  _ now _ .

Another shot, and the world is hazy at the edges when he blinks, and the button-down business shirt he is wearing is fast becoming the worst thing he has ever put on his body, even beating out his coronation robes.  _ Fine. It will be nothing, but fine. _

He groans and pushes the bar stool around. It spins, which is perhaps the only improvement the  _ fírimar _ have made to the basic design of “tall seat for high table”; he does not have to do more than shift his arm against the polished wood. The front of the  _ club _ comes into view - the door opening out into the night, the garish neon signs for various brands of intoxicant, the tables and chairs - and he watches the floor as he moves. There are discarded napkins, and unidentifiable stains, and cigarette butts despite the large posted “No Smoking” signs, and a pair of sturdy black boots that are braced against the concrete. He stops the barstool.

The boots are not what he would call boots - they are intimidating things, thick-soled with visible  _ tread _ (as the  _ fírimar _ call it) and ugly black laces, and they stop just above the ankles of their owner. Above the boots ( _ Why do I care? Why does it matter? Why am I ogling some total stranger _ ?) are a pair of skin-tight leather pants. He knows they are leather by the way they catch the light, and crease around the knee. They are dark red, crisscrossed by straps and dangling chains in a style he has come to know as “gothic”. He catches himself admiring the shape of the legs they are covering.

Higher still, and his gaze comes to hips and groin, and he cannot help himself, his breath catches in his throat at the prominent bulge there.  _ You are _ married, he reminds himself sternly, and yet he cannot force himself to look away. His gaze travels upward, skimming the well-made waistcoat that sits over an expertly tailored white shirt that could not have come off of a department store rack without serious alteration. The man inside the shirt has rolled the sleeves up to the elbow, creating an impression of effortless  _ club _ chic. He is suddenly intensely, hotly interested. In his thoughts is a dim realization that his gaze has been traveling up this stranger for far too long; he ignores it.

The bared forearms end in a pair of hands both engaged in holding a flat cell phone. He dislikes cell phones, as useful as they may be; they are inefficient and hideous. But he has reason now to be thankful for them, for all at once, he is looking at the face of the stranger. The light from the phone’s screen has cast his features into stark relief, showing off high cheekbones, and a proud mouth, and - 

\- he swallows hard. His mouth is suddenly drier than ever, and his heart is pounding, and he cannot tear his gaze from the copper hair that hangs over achingly familiar broad shoulders.

He decides he does not hate Mannish fashion anymore.

_ I am not nearly drunk enough for this _ .

_ I am alone, and I am desperate, and I am horribly _ underdressed, he realizes, and forgoes the shot glass to drink straight from the bottle.  _ I can fix two of these things. I think I shall always be desperate. _ His thoughts are fuzzy, barely strung together, but he forces himself to focus. He is wearing dark Mannish shoes of his own, and slim-fitting denim pants, and a pale blue shirt with a stiff collar and many buttons from a store called Men’s Wearhouse that he despises, and a tight-fitting white undershirt made of cotton beneath that.

_ Yes. Not ideal, but enough _ . His fingers are shaking as he undoes the first button of the despised Men’s Wearhouse creation; he shakes his head and pulls hard until the fabric gives out. The green stone unclasps from his collar when he tugs at it, and he slips it back into its setting on the silver bracelet at his right wrist. One final drink and the bottle is empty; he leaves it at the bar with the blue shirt.

The world is neon fog, shifting and warping around him. He is far more drunk than he realized, and yet his legs don’t falter. Instead, he pushes through the tables and the protesting  _ fírimar _ , straight as an arrow fired from his sister’s bow. They are five steps apart - three - one - 

\- his left hand is sliding up behind his husband’s head and pulling it down, and he smothers a cry of indignant protest with a kiss.

Another heartbeat and there is a hand in his hair, and the  _ clack _ of metal and plastic and glass against concrete, and an arm drapes around his shoulders and pulls him closer and a second hand is gripping his side, and his knees are going weak, and there is a tongue in his mouth that almost certainly does not belong to him. His other hand is somewhere between waist and leg, anchoring itself against leather and metal, and one of them is moaning and he thinks it is probably him.

_ What in Arda are you doing here? _ trails into his alcohol-soaked brain, and he remembers suddenly that he has a proper marriage-bond.

_ Shut up, _ he thinks, and his teeth graze his husband’s lip and the bulge in the leather pants shifts against his stomach. 

_ How drunk are you? _

_ Doesn’t matter. Shut up. _

For a moment there is silence, punctuated only by a low groan when he shoves the both of them up against the sheetrock. They kiss, and kiss again, and again; somehow his husband’s legs have parted, and his thigh is between them, and his left hand is reaching up and pinning an arm to the wall so he can press himself against shirt and waistcoat and leather pants.

_ We really have to stop meeting like this, _ his husband thinks.

_ Hm? _ he answers, shifting his hips and drawing out a low and needy groan.

_ You, me, a rock wall, The Handcuff? _

He laughs, and it is slurred and drunken.  _ So take me home and take me to bed, and we won’t be meeting like this anymore. _

This time his husband moans into their kiss, and the bulge against his stomach has grown. He puts his right hand between them to cup it, and the moan grows sharp and desperate. He smiles, somehow, despite the lips on his and the teeth against his tongue, and rubs his hand up and down the leather. 

You are - ércala muk, Astaldo, ilyë -  _ are too drunk for this, _ his husband thinks. 

_ Am not, _ he answers, and slips his hand under the waistband of his husband’s pants.


End file.
